


Masterpiece

by palered



Category: Fandom (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: F/F, Just hang on, Multi, Other, POV Second Person, hoo boy a lot of betrayal, it's complicated - Freeform, kinda like the egos?, originally based off wkm but it developed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palered/pseuds/palered
Summary: Ah, what a poor sight this is, isn't it? A mask of ice, a heart of stone, the blood in those eyes. No one truly knows what you've gone through, do they?Poor thing.Ah, but there's worse yet to come!Poor thing.[Not necessarily in 'order'. Some are noncanon or different viewpoints for the same event.]





	1. Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, what a shame, what a shame.
> 
> A broken puppet has no purpose, and neither does a puppet with torn strings.
> 
> You happen to fall into both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not necessarily 'canon'. A part of the universe, told from SPN/Gabriel's point of view.

What have you done? **What have you done?!**  
  
You stare down at her body with wide eyes, having dropped the gun formerly in your hands the second you saw the bullet enter her chest.  **What have you done?**  No blood pools from the wound, yet the expression on your face makes it seem as though she's been drenched in it. Falling to your knees, you desperately pull her to your chest, only able to keep your composure for a few seconds before you break down into the flesh slowly draining itself of warmth. Tracing patterns over her skin with your fingers, you barely let a muffled sob escape your lips. You can't hear a heartbeat. Of course you can't.   
  
**You did this to her.**  
  
The thought courses through your head, ringing in your ears as you claw at your hair, praying to the twisted gods of fate she'd believed in so wholeheartedly that this was all just a dream. It was just a dream... right? It had to be! You'd never kill her! Why would you kill your own  _sister_? You love her, she's always been there for you! Even when she acted all uptight when you, oh, you know, broke the law or pulled stunts, she'd still wrap your wounds, gently chastising you for getting yourself hurt again. You'd never do anything to hurt her!  
  
Muttering apologies and denial, the starlight through the window only serves to mock you. You didn't do this. This is all just a joke! Her humor's always been rather dry, and you know that she can't die easily! You've proven that enough! She'll get up any minute now, won't she? 

* * *

You don't know how much time has passed. All you know is that the sun rose not too long ago, and your sobbing hasn't let up. This isn't a joke. It can't be a joke. She'd have heard you, figured out the state you're in, and leap to her feet, apologizing profusely for scaring you with a frown on her face as she tried to comfort you. She would never do this to you. She'd have pulled the bullet from her chest, ink staining her fingers, and drop it to the floor with a sheepish smile on her face hours ago. It can't be a dream either. You wouldn't be so aware if it is.  
  
If this isn't a joke, and it isn't a dream... Then you **killed her**.  _Her_ , the shoulder you've always had to cry on since you lost Ava, who became your 'sister' without a single hesitation. Your home base, in a sense, who'd patch you up and bail you out of whatever situation you got yourself in, albeit with a slight frown on her face and a hand on her hip. Oh, despite how much she threatened to just leave you in whatever mess you'd made, she never did. You had to admire that about her. She really did love you.  
  
That's what makes this all so much worse.  
  
You've had enough time to deal with the gravity of the situation. Dragging her body into the nearest closet, you grab the rose from her hair and pluck the petals, letting them fall over her body in a sick tribute to her memory. Then, dipping your fingers into the open wound (having extracted the bullet hours earlier), you ignore the smell of ink and metal on your skin, scrawling the words "I'M SORRY" on the outside of the door.  
  
Now all you have to do is get rid of the evidence. You've already gotten rid of the bullet, pretty much all of your family save the kids knows how to use a gun (so even if they figured out it was a bullet and not some other weapon, you couldn't immediately be suspected), and you've never done anything to hurt the people you're close to without good reason, it's highly unlikely they'd suspect you. Just wash the blood off your hands and you'll be fine.

* * *

'Fine', you tell yourself. 'Fine', you say. Even when they find her body, you fake shock, the tears falling down your face genuine.  
  
You know you'll never be the same. You know that you shouldn't be around them. If you could kill her, then what would you do to  _them_?  
  
You don't want to think about that. So you laugh and laugh, hiding away, but you know that, from now on, there'll never really be a "you".


	2. Masterpiece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every poor soul has to have a reason for their suffering.

You are angry. That is all you remember. No. Wait. That's not quite right. You remember well-  
He killed you. He killed you. He, who you considered one of the most important people in your life, a  _brother_ to you, killed you.  
You remember, still, the last words you heard before you died. "It was an accident."  
You remember being trapped. You remember the person you met first, who you'd been through life and death with--who preyed on your fears, who let himself be absorbed in lust for power--with you, and you remember his sister.  
You remember the long nights you spent, aching for sleep, and bending over backwards to help.  
You remember the bullet through your heart.  
You remember them leaving you.  
You remember the painting.  
You remember.  
You remember.  
You remember.  
  
You remember too much. You wish you could forget.  
You can retrace your steps exactly to how you got here.  
You can recite word for word the dialogue of that twisted 'show'.  
You can picture every single room in that house as if you were alive.  
You can hear the last words of everyone you knew from before you died.  
You can.  
You can.  
You can.  
You can't bring them back.  
You can't leave, not now.  
You can't stay.  
You can't run.  
You can't.  
You can't.  
You can't.  
  
You have so many regrets. It's a wonder you haven't lost yourself in them.  
You have one home. It's a wonder you haven't broken free.  
You have no body. It's a wonder you haven't faded.  
  
_They_ come to see you. Sometimes. Not often enough.   
What are you saying? You've been stuck here for decades at the kindest, centuries at the cruelest.  
  
You know how to deal with solitude.  
You know all of the 'you's there are.  
  
You don't know why you had to die.  
You don't know why  _they_ got to reform.  
  
You know what happened to your killer.   
You know what happened to your brother.  
  
You don't know what happened to your lover.  
You don't know what happened to your daughter.

* * *

You all were such like a family. You and your 'brother', your best friend and his sister, his lover and his daughter. When your 'brother-in-law', the best friend you were almost like a sibling to's lover, invited all of you over for a party, you thought nothing of it. He had never been much for parties, at least, as far as you knew it, but you assumed it was his husband who had the idea, where he simply did the inviting.   
  
You'd be glad to see your brother. He wasn't 'biological'. You didn't care. Half the time, you ended up trailing him to ensure he didn't make up some wild scheme. You'd seen your fair share of crises from him. Doubting how, to put it lightly, destructive he could be never ended well, in your experiences. He'd always catch right on, calling you 'Mom' in his feeble attempts to try and annoy you into leaving him alone.  
  
When you walked inside the (admittedly rather confusing) contraption of a house they called home, you couldn't help but feel a chill over your spine. You were proud to say your gut didn't steer you wrong, and something about this situation had your impulses firing on all cylinders in fight-or-flight. Ever since you and your 'partner' at his 'best' had a... conversation, you'd been estranging yourself from your brother-in-law. He was nice--to your partner, at least--but every time you found yourself near him, something told you to stay away. If it hadn't been for your brother finally settling down enough to accept the invitation, you would've stayed home!

How you  _wish_  you did.

* * *

You loathe to dwell on the past, or, at least, you  _did_  (the only thing you had left was the past at this point), but you have to make this point to yourself yet again. If you hadn't gone, multiple things would or could have happened. Your brother could have died, or ended up in your situation, a fate you wouldn't wish on anybody. (Save for your brother-in-law. That was all you had to say on the subject of him, all you have to say, and all you will say. He doesn't deserve your time, your energy, your emotions. You didn't die to waste yourself away obsessing over him.  
  
You've decided he doesn't deserve to be called your brother-in-law. You will not allow him to taint the image of the brother who cared for you, who, even as he shot you, held your dying body and traced patterns over your skin. You will not deign to call him anything that may allow him, even in death, to pick under your skin. You will not allow him to gain the satisfaction of being considered close to you. He is no longer family to you. He is, always and forever more, your killer. He may not have dealt the killing blow, but he set the scene for the murder to take place. Your brother was simply the unfortunate pawn. You don't blame him for anything, no, you don't. But you blame yourself when you see what he has become.  
  
You always have.  
  
If you had only been somewhere different, then you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't be hiding behind a painting, soaked with blood and tears on your end, yet perfectly pristine for any onlookers. You wouldn't be stuck, with only the husk of your partner and sister to talk to. You would be able to walk again in the sun, to smell the flowers you'd grown. You would be able to hug your brother despite his protests, share a drink with your best friend, make up stories for your niece just one more time. If you had only been somewhere different, you would still be  **alive**.  
  
Your presence... you've grown to hate it, though it's the only one you've known. Aside from  _them_ , at least. They're the only one who seems to remember you exist. Even then, they never come around. They're 'busy'. They have to 'handle things in the living world'. Right. However alive  _they_  are. You've been trapped in this world--which you don't even believe has a name, seeing as you're the only occupant, and you know you'll never be fond enough of it to give it a name--since you died, thanks to everyone else who died in that house being 'reborn'. You can travel through portraits and photographs of yourself, if only for a short time, but you know it isn't enough.  
  
Your eyes have already closed from trying to force back tears, breath catching in your throat with each inhale you try to take, and for a moment you're afraid you might choke. But you're already dead! You can't double-die! You just have to stay calm. Don't cry. Don't cry.  _He_ 's done enough of the crying for you. Sometimes you look for him, but as time (whatever that even means to you at this point) went on, you lost the will to see her. Better to not see him at all than to see him grieve. Your eyes open once again, and the roses have faded back into the ground. You've forsaken all company- Fuse never comes to visit, and who else would look for you, your brother? Why would he want to look for the person he murdered? He doesn't deserve the guilt! You don't deserve to see him.

* * *

You've tried everything. Eventually, you began to talk to yourself, detailing the events that you wish could happen. Sometimes the world around you would change to your wishes. You shaped a manor around you, full of secret passageways and slot machines, grand library and theater, chapel and a bar. Beneath it, you built a basement, to hide anything you wished to keep out of sight. Not like there will ever be anyone here besides you. You found it comforting- for a while. Eventually, you grew lonely once again.  
  
The manor was not enough anymore. None of its secrets could keep you company enough to stave off the gnawing feeling in the pit of your core. You locked yourself away in the basement, crafting room after room of gold and silver, structures that would scare off any who weren't you, objects that bent reality to create a place that, you knew, would tie a knot in your stomach if you weren't its sole creator. Donning a mask to keep yourself out of sight and mind, you brought to your new universe your former friends, your former family, your former life. Your words wove silk through the fabric of the manor, giving story--a purpose--to all those who inhabited it. Once your work was finished, you ascended to the clock tower, watching over them all.  
  
You stare at the painting on the wall, mocking you, and for a moment, the image turns into a mirror,  _beckoning_  you closer. Beneath the mask covering your face, all you can see of yourself is two eyes. One holds a black iris, lightning crackling through the black center of your pupil. The other? Red sclera and iris surrounds where the pupil should be- and in its place protrudes a purple, thorned rose.

* * *

You are angry. That is all you remember. No. Wait. That's not quite right. You know quite well-  
  
Vivian is dead. Her memory is long gone, wiped from the surface of the living world and mourned only by the husk of her partner and former 'brother'.  
  
You know who you are.  
You know who you were.  
You know who you could have been.  
  
You know that your name is  **Ichor**.


	3. Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, darling. Do you know what you've gotten yourself into.
> 
> It has no meaning now.
> 
> Good luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told from the perspective of the Ib/Vivian from the prime timeline. Ichor is a part of her psyche who can take control if given consent. This is set, of course, after Masterpiece and Doom.

What have you done?  **What have you done?!**  
  
Arms wrapping around yourself, you stare down at the lifeless body of someone you thought was your 'friend'. Chained by the wrists and ankles to a pole in the center of the room, the stench of death fills the air, a familiar metallic tang in your mouth that you know doesn't belong to you. You know what he's done to you, but even  _he_  didn't deserve this, did he? What have you done? His eyes have been gouged out, a thorny stem wrapped in and out of the empty sockets- and a bloodstained blue rose emerges from each, blooming out of adversity. One hand over your mouth to stifle a scream, the other covers your eyes, fingers splayed open to give you a partial scene as you slowly, slowly step backwards until you hit the nearest wall.  
  
Figure shaking, your wails echo off the bloody walls, and you fall to your knees. You can't look at the body. You can't look at the body. It's got to be just a joke, right! O- or a dream! It has to be! He can't really  _die_ , can he? It doesn't matter, because he isn't dead. He isn't dead.  
  
A single phrase resonates through your ears- " _He does bad things to good people_."  
  
You  _know_  that voice. It is yours, except... pitch bouncing off the shards of a cracked mirror, the words distort, screaming until they're--you're--hoarse. It is the cry of pain as a gunshot pierces your heart, the agony of a century's isolation, the bloodlust of a family's murderer. It is the megalomania of having a world bend at your will, the heartbreak of knowing you will never see a loved one again, the ire seething inside you of seeing a guilty man walk free. All of these, all of this; you know they don't belong to you.  
  
What are you going to do with the body?  
  
It's a terrible thought, but you have to. He'll be home soon, and you know he won't take kindly to...  **this**. Whatever this is! You've never known what to do with a body. You've... never had to deal with a body that wasn't your own. Besides, you can't feel anything. Are you imagining things? Is it a dream?

It doesn't matter. The voice you've grown too familiar with--a voice you used to  **trust** \--speaks to you, a flickering image in the corners of your vision.   
  
_"Let me take control. Let me deal with it. Don't you understand, darling? We are the **same**. Let go to the feeling. It's what he deserved."_ They reach their hand out to you, the mask over their face contorting to an inviting smile.  
  
Every part of your body trembling, you refuse to look at them. This is just a dream! You're imagining it! So what's the harm in letting them in? There can't be any! They're just trying to do what's best for you! Lifting your head ever so slightly, your hair falls into your eyes as you see them kneel down to your level, extending their hand once again. A faint whisper of "I'm sorry" leaving your lips, you place your hand in theirs, and the jolt of electricity that flows through you almost renders their next words inaudible:  
  
" _Today's the day you say goodbye."_

* * *

When you awake once again, you are sitting outside, a shovel lying beside you. It's been used, recently even. Blue roses sprout from the ground, the deathly scent of flesh still surrounding them. Wiping the blood from your eyes and the sweat from your brow, you pause. It's... gold. What did they do to you?  **What did they do to you?!**  Burying your face in bloodstained hands, tears mix in with the ichor, dripping onto the dirt- and more roses bloom where they fall, the ground around them a caustic, hissing mess of acid. Drops splash onto your skin, and you jolt back, drawing in a restrained breath let out through the teeth.   
  
All you remember is  **them**. They asked you for control, and you gave it to them. They wanted to meet someone from their past. They needed to find him. You obliged. You shouldn't have.  
  
The first time you awoke, his body became the unpleasant result. Now, you don't even know what happened. You buried him, you suppose, but... where did all these flowers come from? They couldn't have grown in such a short time. What did they do? You suppose it doesn't matter. You're alive, and everyone you care for is alive. He got what he deserved. He only got what he deserved. Their shattered voice returns, murmuring 'support': telling you that they did the one truly just thing, that you allowed justice, that he has finally reaped what he sowed! Images, scenes, flash through your head in an instant, and your tears give way to a scowl. How did he... How could they let that happen? Why did he take the family who'd accepted him and slaughtered them all? How could he?

* * *

She's returned. You act like nothing happened, because of course you would! Their voice guides you, telling you what to say, prompting you to act, feeding you the tales that created them. " _You've done a noble thing,_ " they tell you. "I don't know what happened-!" You say, crocodile tears rolling down your face.  
  
You don't know what to think anymore. Even with them telling you that everyone is safe now, you fear that he'll return. He always does, doesn't he?  
  
You don't want to think about that. Better to pretend nothing happened, 'mourn' the loss of the man responsible for your family's murder, who committed the ultimate crime.  
  
It's what  _they_  want you to do, after all.


End file.
